


The Dance Of Two Flames

by B_Uthoughtwrong



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Reader-Insert, assassin!reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 05:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13496048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_Uthoughtwrong/pseuds/B_Uthoughtwrong
Summary: "You are man who can play ten roles in an orchestra of track and kill; don't you dare say that in that whipped body of yours there is not a single graceful bone you've left for dancing."





	The Dance Of Two Flames

**Author's Note:**

> THIS MOOD BOARD IS THE MOST EXTRA THING I'VE EVER DONE  
> i am so unapologetically apologetically in love with it  
> HAHAH  
> THANK YOU FOR READING  
> sorry for the typos eww

 

 

> _Baby, I'm just as dangerous_

 

 

* * *

After losing what was left of his wife, the light she burned inside his chest that was fading, hoping to survive another day, or just another hour, had finally faded away. He, in a horrendous cracking symphony of inevitability, came hurtling back into the world he wished to shove down with the buried bodies he left. He had nothing else.  _There was nothing else anyway,_ so he let himself get elbow deep with blood again. Heavens knew it would only be a matter of time before his whole body was drenched in red.

 

"I don't believe my eyes," she mused out with a genuine smile and placed a hand on his shoulder for reassurance. _"Baba Yaga actually came."_ He flinched infinitesimally at nickname in a such a way no one could've ever noticed, but to her it was as if he had a quick seizure. The lips on the woman that was painted in a dangerous glossy shade of pink, quirked up in appreciation of him, moved to hypnotize the man into giving her his full attention. "Don't worry, I won't comment on how you're supposed to be retired."

The man who was wearing a crisp black suit, complementing the woman's rhinestone studded, plunging neckline dress chuckled deeply at that.

_At least there was her._

"You already did." 

She moved closer to him, placing her hand on his back. "I'm sorry for your loss, Jonathan." She meant it in all the ways both of them could think of. John peered down at the body, slender, worked into to pure muscle, yet in contrast had the softest heart.

He laughed the first time he heard of her,  _"What kind of joke of an assassin kills only bad guys?"_ He had asked Winston as he poured him a drink and explained the background of his partner for a contract.  _"The kind that was born into this role, whose hardened heart bleeds for those undeserving of a bullseye on their backs."_

Unbeknownst to him, this so called joke of an assassin turned out to be one of the scarce things that would terrify him. He remembers vividly how surprised he was when he found out that the efficient, raised from birth killing machine was this woman who had heavy eye lids and had slurred out the words she spoke. The earth beneath his feet shook when he saw that very same woman swiftly fire at a man he had only suspected to be tailing them. She was the epitome of the saying don't judge a book by its cover. She was why never again did he react if he hadn't seen the face behind the tales told to him.

 

She laughed softly at his words, as the two found a comfortable position with each other, either having a hand on the other's back. "I don't want to say this... but it's true." The woman's face softened, "I missed you, John."

He knew she didn't mean it in the greedy or dry way most others would mean, but he still couldn't bring himself to smile at her sentiment. So instead of reacting to it, he pulled away and placed a hand on the side of her neck delicately _, "Happy Birthday."_

Her flawless face showed not a single crinkle as it rose into a bright smile. She caught the hand on her neck, leaning against it, nodding, "Thank you, John." She raised her brows playfully, "Where's my present?"

The bearded man man quirked a brow and pursed his lips, _"I thought you missed me."_

A sweet sound bubbled out from her chest, causing a lower version of it to do the same in his. She flaunted to maximum extent the pride and glory of her being, the perfect pearly whites, unbroken, in it's original, post-teenage braces form, which physical proof of her expertise. The mere thought of being in this line of work and having all your teeth intact is astounding. She puckered her lips and threw his hand playfully away from her, "I missed you, but I didn't miss you _that_ much."

 

The live classical music started to play another, livelier song. The grand ballroom resounded in a beautiful ear tingling masterpiece that was of Tchaikovsky's design. She smiled at the familiarity just as John shared, "What does the girl of the hour want for her special day?"

A mischievous face marked her features, "Well, now that you're asking me... _I want two things."_

John exaggerated surprise, though in truth, he wold fulfill a hundred markers for her. "I'm getting kind of old to play fairy godmother and grant you  _two wishes."_ She nodded with a scrunched up nose, "You liar, you've not a gray hair in sight."

"I'm mastered the art of slicking it away with gel."

She rolled her eyes, and even that was in a graceful manner, "Don't worry, I won't make you infiltrate Fort Knox." She pulled her long dress up and started walking backwards, "Your first gift is only that you and I share a dance."

He called out her name in complain which only made her nod her head in disagreement and smile softly as her hand caught his, "You are man who can play ten roles in an orchestra of track and kill; don't you dare say that in that whipped body of yours there is not a single graceful bone you've left for dancing." He chuckled, but with all her poetry, he only replied one word, _"Guilty."_

She scoffed out of disbelief in a high pitch, "Well, you will learn then, to commemorate the day of my birth."

 

He had no say it in whatsoever anyway, so he allowed himself to be dragged to the middle of the room where not a single soul stood to even sway at the sweet music. He knew the basics of dancing, Helen liked dancing, but he knew she had no time to be _know the basics,_ or be  _alright in dancing_ , or only _nearly_ master something, and evidently, just by the simple steps she took, he knew he  _will not_  ever learn dancing to the level of skill this woman did. 

Against her fluent movements, she could feel the stiffness and tenses that was already so deep on John's shoulders.

"Don't tell me John Wick is catching a case of stage fright."

"I told you, I don't dance."

"Says the man who can dive into a room of killers without even flinching."

He looked at her and grunted out, "It's not like I host public executions to be comfortable with this."

 

"Stop being so _hyper-aware!"_ she hissed, though his eyes were only ever directed to her.

"You're saying _that_ to _me?"_ he huffed out. She did the same, "Then only focus on  me and the music, deduct my movements and waltz."

And that was exactly what he did for the first few seconds. He examined her face, how well drawn her makeup was, how well the full of effort, effortless looking locks of crowning glory drooped in all the right places to frame her face. She was a symmetric masterpiece the Greeks and maestros would weep at the feet of. But she still had scars, faded scars hidden in places scars shouldn't be, tucked away behind her ear, in between the tendons of her nape, in the depression of her left collarbone, in the middle of her fourth and fifth left rib. Of course these all were scars you couldn't see at first glance; she had always been careful of tending to her wounds, and they all were located in hidden places. John only knew of these ones because he was there when the scars where merely fresh wounds. He remembered them like his own because those psychotic Italian mobsters really tortured the hell out of her when they worked on a certain contract together.

 

Suddenly, in the corner of John's eye, he spotted a man with a wicked smirk playing on his lips. He then raised his glass.  _Speaking of psychotic Italian mobsters_.

"What's wrong?" she questioned right after seeing the man's expression shift. Unknowingly, the violins that had already lead him to involuntarily find the graceful dancing bone hidden within his calcified skeleton snapped, and so did he out of the trance, immediately alerting his keen partner. He looked at her with a distance gaze and didn't reply to the concerned question. She huffed and broke away, catching his hand, doing a spin, and pulling herself back to him.

 

 _"Santino D'Antonio?"_ she asked though it was more like a statement. He almost smiled at her intuition, but he was too on edge over the said man's smug reaction to have do so.

He didn't want to answer the question she had, he didn't  _need_ to, but he did so nonetheless for she'd eventually pry it out of him, why prolong everything? So he spoke lowly and answered with the quickest explanation he could muster, "He has a marker on me."

And in that moment, for the first time, she left her character in that moment and strained. John could already feel the itch she had acquired.

"What does he want you to do?"

"I don't know," he answered almost too dumbly. She raised her upper lip and threw him a sour look of disappointment and disapproval, "How could you not know?!" John huffed, he knew how much she wanted to raise her voice at him and so much more right now. _"I don't want to know."_ he countered.

It was in this moment, the man was assured the woman was unarmed or else he would've definitely been stabbed.

"I swear to all things good, John, you're such an idiot sometimes!" She scoffed then corrected herself,  _"Most times._ _"_

 

The moment she spoke these words, the music ended and so did their dance. She and him stood still amidst the applause and bore into each other's eyes. Either of them knew what John was going to do next, and it was definitely not sticking around to listen to another song or to that Roman go on about something that would make him go gladiator. John cupped her cheeks and pecked her forehead. _"Happy Birthday,"_ was how he bid farewell. She grunt in dissatisfaction, and caught his hand before he could slip away. He turned to her with sanguine eyes and pulled away.

 

Once he slipped throigh her fingers and went to the exit on the opposite direction of the man he wished to avoid, the birthday girl let her lower lip pout out and brows knit softly. She let out a breath and straightened her posture. The moment turned around, a man caught her by the waist and smiled, _"Buon compleanno, bella."_ he rasped out earning him a small, forced smile from the woman, still thankful for the birthday greeting however.  _"Grazie mille. Ti stai divertendo?"_

The man gave a wide smile as he pulled away from her, seeing he has pushed the limit enough with his touch, and took a sip on his champagne flute. His brows quirked at her question, _are you enjoying yourself? "Sí,_ very much so." he spoke after pulling his drink away. "How's John doing?"

She pretended to smile, but on an expert level, since they were both experts at such pleasantries, "Well, he's still battling retirement." she joked, earning and equally expert pretended laugh. In truth, Santino found this day to be a double treat for not only did he get to bask in the glory of the birthday girl, he also got to send a message to John; though nonverbal, it was very much a heavy one.

"Did you see my gift?"

She nodded with a smile, "I haven't opened my gifts yet."

"Well when you do, please do tell me what you think."

"I will just that."

 _This was his chance,_ "We could do that over dinner."

She smiled, a genuine one this time, "I'd rather not."

 

The man's brows shot up and for a moment, he felt he hadn't heard right. "Excuse me, I have to go." the woman then broke him from his trance and walked past him.

 

 

John was driving away, or was about to when suddenly there was a designer dress clad body that blocked his way, causing him to step heavily on the breaks. The woman who hindered his escape released a breath then walked up to the front seat, getting in. He turned to her, expressionless, and she turned to him the same way, voicing out a, _"Go."_

He gripped the driving wheel tightly and huffed, "You're leaving your own birthday party?"

She shrugged, "It's _my_ party."

 

They looked at each other for a moment. John didn't want her to bail when the event was all for her, but at the same time, he didn't necessarily feel inclined to kick her out of his car. He let out a sigh and turned to the road, deciding not to say anything in the end. So she instead did the talking, "My second gift... _I want you to promise me something."_

John turned to her, feeling his lips softly tug up in amusement, "Wouldn't that technically make it three gifts?"

"John."

He found himself chuckling, "What do you want me to promise you?"

The woman gave him a gravely thoughtful and soft look. She ghosted her tongue on her still perfectly painted lips, and chewed the inside of the lower lip. "I... want you to _promise_ me," she breathed out then in, _"that you'll stay with me."_

The man didn't know what to say.

"I want you to stay with me, Jonathan, through your comeback into this world." She turned her body to him and knit her brows, "I want you to promise me you'll stay with me through your marker, through your other contracts, through tomorrow, through tonight." It was obvious to him, she wanted to say something more, what she really meant when she said _promise_ and _stay._ But she didn't tell him those thoughts, not because she was afraid of rejection, but because her soft heart was preventing her. She knew how much he loved his wife, how much the mere name Helen struck a chord in him; she didn't want to pour alcohol on his fresh and deep wounds. He could feel the minuscule twitch in her body, how she felt urged to go on further, but with the infinite self-control and discipline, she did not act upon anything.

"Just promise me you'll stay, John." she repeated as if what she was saying was of a different language, needed to be thoroughly spoken.  _Please,_ her eyes begged.

So he nodded at her and instantly earned a sigh and smile of relief. The woman now pulled on the seat belt and strapped herself in, but at the same time she did so, John removed his own and did what they both knew she wanted to but would not initiate, at least not now. Their lips connected, her glossy lips like a cool cup of water on his dry but not chapped ones. She was caught off guard for a moment, but quickly caressed either side of his face while he secured her chin with his left thumb and index finger. She tasted like lipstick, rich in Vaseline with just a hint of watermelon. His prickly beard made her want to scratch her skin, but she pushed the thought away because she was finally kissing him,  _ehem,_ he was  _actually_ kissing her. They were both so warm against each other, the car was turning into an oven, the windows were close to fogging up from the inside.

Once John broke away to have them both catch a breath, he heaved out his reply, voice low, raspy, genuine, "I promise you I'll stay."


End file.
